“Indeed,” responded Kara. She sipped the champagne.
The couple spent the next hour getting to know each other. During this time they added an appetizer of fried calamari to complement the bottle of Cristal. Masrov learned that Kara Livingston had moved to Dubai seven years earlier when her American husband, an investment banker she met and married in London, accepted a job to open a Dubai office for his firm. She loved life in Dubai, choosing to stay even after her husband left her for his young Indonesian secretary. Divorced for four years now, she had found her calling as a powerful businesswoman in a country in which the official ethics called for women to stay in the home. She relished the dichotomy. Every day that she closed another deal was another chance to flip her middle finger at the male dominated society she opted to live in — and at the man who left her for a 28-year-old. Now she had risen to the pinnacle of the real estate brokerage business in Dubai. She was earning a lot of money and depended on no man.
Gennady Masrov poured out the last few drops into Kara’s flute. “You are a fascinating woman, Kara. Not at all what I expected to meet in the Middle East.”
“What did you expect?”
“Women in burkas riding around on camels.”
Kara laughed out loud. “You are funny. Are all Russians like you?”
“No. Most are lousy lovers.”
Kara stopped in the middle of a sip of champagne and lowered her flute. She looked at Gennady and shook her head. “You are trouble.”
“I try.”
“Let’s go to Boudoir.”
“Boudoir? What’s that?”
“It’s the hottest club in town. Do you dance?”
“I am flying out very early tomorrow morning. How about we go to Boudoir the next time I am back.”
Kara frowned with a pouty face, the alcohol in her system exaggerating her mood. “Oh, come on. You can give me an hour.”
Masrov knew exactly how the evening would end — if he wanted it to end that way. “I will take a rain check. But I promise you that we will have a great night next time.”
“Well, when is next time?”
“Not positive. Probably next week. But let me drop you off at home.”
“You didn’t drive, did you?”
“No, Kara. I have the same driver I have had all day. The same car you saw when we left the office tower.”
Kara Livingston was drunk and now felt the regret of a silly alcohol induced mistake. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I remember.” She attempted a sip of champagne from her flute that only produced a solitary drop. She put the flute on the table for the final time. “I am honored to go home in your company.”
Forty minutes later, the Mercedes S600 pulled up in front of a garden home on Al Bumaan Street. This street formed a leaf of the famous Palm Jumeirah, the man-made palm-shaped island just off the coastline of Dubai. Masrov walked Kara to the door.
“Very nice home,” Gennady observed.
“Thank you. I brought it last year after renting it for a couple of years. Great price. The only problem is that most of the homes here are vacant.” She put her key in the door and unlocked the deadbolt. “You should come in and see the beach. It’s right behind the house.”
Gennady Masrov reached across her front, firmly grasped her left arm above the elbow and spun her toward him. He leaned his head forward and softly kissed her. The pair lingered on the kiss, enjoying the feel of each other’s lips. Gennady pulled back after some seconds had passed. “Good night, Kara. I look forward to our next evening together.”
“Good night, Gennady. I am glad I met you.”
19 — Investing
Danny Stein stepped out of his office at 5 Bank of Israel Street in Jerusalem, turned left and walked across the building to the temporary office of Marc Leizman. Leizman had been recommended by the CEO of El Al after being asked by the prime minister for the name of a man with exceptional mechanical knowledge, great resourcefulness and enduring patriotism. Leizman had retired from El Al about a year earlier at the age of 62. After learning to be an aircraft mechanic in the IAF, he had spent 28 years at the airline, rising to head up all aircraft maintenance. It was said that there was not a plane that he couldn’t take apart and reassemble better than it was before.
Leizman’s office was protected by a locked door that only Stein and the retired mechanic could open. Stein knocked first and then used his key to enter. “Good morning, Marc.”
Leizman was happy to have company. He was a mechanic by profession and even when he was part of the senior team at El Al he would relieve the stress of management by going to one of the hangers at Ben Gurion Airport and assisting a crew working on one of the many Boeing aircraft used by the airline. But in the two weeks since being called out of retirement by his prime minister, he had been doing nothing other than some online research and negotiating to buy a couple of planes. He knew he was on an important mission that was not to be discussed, but he did not know what it was — and he could not figure out why he was stuck in an office in Jerusalem in the building that housed the Ministry of Industry, Trade and Labor.
He had been set up in this office with two computers and two phones. He was instructed that one computer was for his internet searches and emails related to buying planes and engines. This computer was networked to the El Al system and his email address had been set up on the El Al exchange server. The other computer was for taking notes and any planning or analysis. Likewise, one of the phones in his offices, which was clearly marked with red tape on the receiver, was a Voice over Internet Protocol, or VoIP, phone that was connected to El Al’s telephony network and used a number that came from El Al’s library of assigned phone numbers. Anyone tracking Leizman’s activities would find that all roads led to the El Al network. The other phone was an internal Ministry of Industry phone that had one purpose: allowing him to talk to Danny Stein when he needed to.
Leizman was told to restrict all personal calls to his cell phone. But there were not a lot of personal calls for Leizman. His wife had died of lung cancer half a decade earlier and his daughter, his only child, had moved to New York after marrying an American. Marc Leizman’s life had been taking care of the El Al fleet and retirement had not turned out the way he expected. He had been spending all his days in his apartment in Rishon LeZiyyon just watching TV and sinking slowly and inexorably into a morose attitude that threatened to migrate into a full blown depression. His dreams of world travel had degenerated into a single trip to New York to spend a week with his daughter, son-in-law and his two grandchildren. But it was clear to him that he was not a welcome guest, his son-in-law being too busy and stressed to be able to handle another distraction.
He had been sinking lower when Danny Stein called him out of the blue a month earlier. Leizman was shocked when a member of the Kitchen Cabinet of Israel drove to Rishon to have lunch with a retired man who lived alone and no longer seemed to matter to anybody. But Leizman immediately felt the excitement of being important again, the rush of having a purpose in life. Whatever it was that Stein wanted, Marc Leizman was fully on board.
“Morning.” Leizman motioned for Stein to take a seat.
“How’s the progress?” Stein asked. He continued to stand.
“Good. I should finalize a deal for the second plane today. This one is located in Kazakhstan.”
“How much?”
“A little more than the first. This one will cost eight point three five million dollars.”
The higher price got Danny Stein excited. “PS-90 engines?”
“No, unfortunately. I still can’t find any 76s with the 90 engines. All of the ones with the 90s are just not for sale. Period.”